


gettin it right in the end

by amporatrash



Series: post-game universe C [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Fat Eridan, Fat Shaming, Fat Trolls, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Post-Sburb/Sgrub, Sex, Suicidal Thoughts, Tentabulges
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 20:47:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5348003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amporatrash/pseuds/amporatrash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of you begins wondering if this is some sick joke Dave or Sollux put him up to, and you decide that if it is, you really are going to stick your legendary harpoon gun between your dark, flawlessly-glossed lips and blow your head off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	gettin it right in the end

**Author's Note:**

> in which eridan reaches the end of his rope and dirk takes notice
> 
> originally written january 2015

You are the short fat Eridan Ampora.

In your universe, you were not hatched to be tall or svelte. Nope, you're short and fat. You're an angry little pufferfish and "Napoleon Complex" doesn't even begin to cover it. In fact Troll Napoleon is one of your heroes (except for the whole part where he stupidly gets himself and his whole army killed).

You did everything the other Eridans did. You share the same history, up to a point (your timeline skewed off in other directions, after all). The primary difference is that you seemed to like the water a lot more than some of the other Eridans and you spent a lot more time in it.

Just so happened you were a comfort eater. You hated the land dwellers but fuck, they had good food. You're not proud of yourself.

In your universe, everyone went godtier (including you) and you were victorious. You fought as you were meant to but the others always avoided and distrusted you. A vicious conflict between yourself, Sollux, and Fef lead to strife and left her dying, but Sollux had been able to get her to her quest bed in the nick of time. Kanaya hunted you down, but when she came at you, you defended yourself and killed her (albeit temporarily).

You were openly shunned after that. Briefly after the Game ended, you went on your own way, but the overwhelming loneliness drove you to simply wander. It's been so lonely.

 

Or at least it was. You've since found your so-called friends and acquaintances but that hasn't done a lot to alleviate your loneliness. They don't treat you very well, but then that's nothing new, is it? You're not even a danger to anybody anymore, and you still get the cold shoulder more often than not.

You're just wandering around the huge strange castle where you're all living when you stumble into a room where nearly everyone is seated in a circle on fluffy cushions in different states of undress, playing a game of cards. When you ask what's up, they tell you strip poker, and no way in hell are you invited. In fact, Dave tells you to march your fat cape-wearing ass right out of the room because nobody would ever want to see that shit anyway.

Your face flushes suddenly and something in your core twists like a limb caught in an automatic door. Your throat tightens, your gills clamp shut and your fins wilt. For some reason his words punch you in a way that not even a fist could, and without a word, you turn from the room and you leave, your cape billowing behind you. You are a majestic motherfucker, you really are and you always have been. Your hair is impeccable, your clothing pristine, your glasses polished and eyeliner flawless, even as it begins to smudge. You've always been proud of your appearance, and the way you decorate yourself with jewelry and a touch of lipgloss only elaborates further on the fact that you do. You're fuckin' royalty.

And then Dave opens his stinking meat tunnel and unleashes a torrent of shit.

Why it hurts you like that, you have no idea. He's just a piece of human trash and nothing he does or says should mean anything to you in any way. What do you care? Perhaps alone, his words wouldn't have had any impact, but his commentary is just another turd on top of a pile of shit that long ago took on the general size and looming demeanor of a mountain. Beware earthquakes. 

It doesn't help that Dave lances into you as often as he can and no one has ever stood up for you. It's to the point now that you can't spend even a few minutes in the same room with him and you have a feeling that's why many of the other trolls spend so much time in his company.

He's seadweller repellent.

Funny thing. Fef seems immune. She's as rounded as you are, but he never tears her apart. Well of course he wouldn't, you remind yourself. Fef is perfect. She's flawless in a way you'll never be.

You stomp your way down the hall until something in you snaps. Your anger wilts into despair and weariness, and you don't feel like taking another step. You put up with this day after day and it's to the point now that you don't want to be around anyone anymore. You don't even have to open your mouth for it to start; all you have to do is enter the room and it's like there's a bullseye painted on your chest. Of course, you know the only person responsible for putting that bullseye there is you, but it's been so long now and by your estimation all the water's under the bridge. Why do they keep breaking the dam and flooding it over again?

You've not so much as threatened anyone since you found them all again. You haven't even drawn Ahab's Crosshairs or your empiricist's wand from your strife deck in months. There's been no need.

You lean against the wall, your eyes stinging. Don't they know what loneliness is? They can't know, not like you know it. There's no way they could understand just how deep it goes for you, how it feels like a monster with its claws sunk deep into your flesh, tearing you apart. The feeling is painful to the point of being physically debilitating, and you press your bejeweled left hand to the wall to steady yourself. You want to fall over suddenly, to just curl up under your cape and die. No one wants to be near you. No one wants to touch you. No one ever will. Maybe you will draw Ahab's Crosshairs tonight. Maybe you'll draw it for the last time. The tip is sharp, but you've had it between your lips before. 

No one ever asked how you got the cuts.

"Hey."

You don't react at first. You know that voice but there's no way it's speaking to you. Even if it is, he's probably just passing down the hall. It's Dave's weird alt-universe ectobrother. Dirk is his name.

You've lifted your head and responded to a lot of random vocal prompts only to be told that you weren't the one being addressed, so you've stopped paying attention and reacting when most people talk.

A warm gloved hand slides against your shoulder and gently grips. You practically jump out of your skin as you turn around.

He's taller than you, pale and smooth and strong, and from his state of general undress it looks like he was losing spectacularly at strip poker. He's down to his underwear, his shades, socks, and gloves, and that's it. You'd never openly consider a member of his degenerate species attractive, but he is and you can't deny it to yourself. Maybe it's the loneliness talking, or maybe some forms of beauty transcend aesthetic; to you, he really is beautiful. 

You stare at him for a moment before realizing your pale violet tears are probably making you look more pathetic than usual. You're royalty. Weakness doesn't behoove you. You rapidly wipe them away. 

"You okay?" he asks, stepping closer, his voice nearly toneless as usual. The mere proximity is enough to flush your cheeks with color; because he's not wearing very much, you can see just how smooth and cut he is, lean and muscular, and his scent isn't muffled by layers of fabric.

Your expression twists briefly into a mask of distrust. Why should you trust him, after all? It doesn't help that he reminds you of Dave. "Wwhy do you care?" you grumble before you can stop yourself, looking away from him.

"Dave's an asshole," Dirk says quietly. It seems both of you are refusing to answer each other's questions properly, but the conversation continues all the same.

"Wwhat else is neww."

"Right? Still, he shouldn't have said that. That was a dick move, even for him."

Something in your chest feels hot. You glance up at him again, this time with a little less distrust. He reaches up to brush a tear from your cheek with his thumb, his hand feeling hot against your cool, smooth skin. He seems to notice this as well, and before you know it, he's got your face cupped in both of his hands. You don't think you've ever blushed quite so bright in all your life. The tips of your fins feel as if they're glowing.

"Are you feeling okay?" he asks. "You're cold."

"I'm a seatroll," you reply, your voice quieter than you expected. "My body temperature is lowwer than that of landdwwellin' trolls."

"Really?" His normally-stoic expression shifts into something vaguely resembling curious interest, the sort that could sweep a lonely douchebag like you right off your feet if you weren't anchored to-- Nope, there you go. Out to sea. "That makes sense. So, seadweller literally means that."

You gently tug your face from his grasp by backing up a little. Not because you don't like it, but because you like it too much. You haven't had that much physical contact since Fef was still your moirail, and it's far too much for you to handle calmly. The last thing you want right now is to flip out on him. "Yeah," you say, though there's a tremor in your voice.

His expression relaxes once more and before you can make another move, he's slipped his arm around your shoulders and begins walking off with you in tow. You have no idea where you're going but you're not keen on being left behind again. Part of you begins wondering if this is some sick joke Dave or Sollux put him up to, and you decide that if it is, you really are going to stick your legendary harpoon gun between your dark, flawlessly-glossed lips and blow your head off.

"We never hang out," he says out of nowhere. "Why is that?"

"Because you're usually hangin' around wwith the other Strider," you reply quite plainly, as if it ought to be obvious. "Or wwith one a' the other dirtscrapers that hate me. Human or otherwwise."

"I guess that would be a valid reason."

"You think?" You sound bitter. Well, of course you do. Your entire fucking existence has left a bitter taste in your mouth and nothing you've come by yet has been able to wash it out.

"Look, you just gotta give back as good as you get," Dirk begins, sounding remarkably calm given the topic. "Dave said it himself. He doesn't know why you don't fight back. It doesn't make sense to him."

Your eyes narrow and you glance up at your fellow Prince. You're still not sure where he's leading you but you're both quite some distance from the others by now. "Are you tellin' me that's his idea of black flirtin' or somethin' like that because--"

"No, no," Dirk interrupts, shaking his head a bit. Is he smiling? Holy shit. You don't remember ever seeing him smile, for any reason. It's strange. "Not even close. He just doesn't understand why you're not stepping up to the challenge. He didn't figure you for a doormat."

Your blush mottles and you halt him in his tracks. You couldn't possibly look more affronted if you tried. "Are you fuckin' KIDDIN' ME?" you snarl. All you can think of briefly is clutching Dave by the throat and squeezing until he turns as blue as Equius. You hear that's a bad thing for humans. "And to think, here I'vve been, doin' my fuckin' best to be diplomatic! D'you honestly think for one bloody minute that the others wwouldn't jump all ovver me if I DID snap back at him? Sol looks for any opportunity to rip me apart and most a' the others aren't any fuckin' different. I'vve been tryin' to showw them that I ain't interested in fightin' to the point that I evven stopped defendin' myself and this--" 

You stop talking. You can't talk anymore, you're too fucking exhausted and annoyed suddenly. Your brain has hit the wall and your fins curl in frustration. An overwhelming tide of black emotion roils through you, washing away any momentary clarity you might have had, but you've got no outlet for it. You're so used to not having an outlet for it that you just stand there and do what you always do these days. You tremble and you cry, covering your face in embarrassment by slipping your hands under your glasses. "I can't wwin. There's no wway."

For some reason he hasn't called you pathetic and simply walked away and you don't know why that is. "Hey," he says once again, gently taking you by the wrists, as if he were trying to get you to lower your hands. You turn from him and you do so, but only to brush away your tears again.

"I'm such a wweak pile a' shit," you mutter. You know it's true. Anyone would say so.

"No you're not." Anyone except him, apparently. He slips behind you and you feel his hands upon your shoulders again, and this time they don't stay still. He starts massaging, fingers rubbing skillfully through the satiny layer of your cape. "You're alone. You don't think I know what that's like? I spent my whole life alone. I was in an apartment all by myself, surrounded by the ocean. Like I was the only human left on Earth."

You tremble again, this time from the combination of his touch and his words. So maybe he did know. "I'd be wwillin' to bet you'vve nevver had to kill your friends."

"No, that's true," he replies calmly. "But I did alienate my only boyfriend. To this day, Jake and I are. Well, I don't think we even know, really."

"Mm." You sniff, and you slowly start to relax. His touch is amazing, and you just want to soak it up as long as you can. You can't even think of anything to say and you slump, abandoning your normal stiff posture.

He pauses, then his fingers dig a little deeper, move a little slower. "Do you like that?"

"Uh. Uh-huh." Understatement of your life. His arm slides around you again and this time it pulls you closer. You don't have the energy or willpower left to push away or ask him what he's doing; like a broken beast, you simply let him direct you however he wishes.

"Come on," he murmurs, his voice low and calm.

You don't know what he's doing or what he's after but he's not making fun of you and he's not cracking any jokes. All your black emotions bubble down into a cold, ashy sludge in your belly, leaving you feeling hollow inside, wiped out. It's like he's got you at the very end of your rope. After everything, you're just empty. It feels like there's nothing left of you and if he somehow turns this around and makes a joke out of it, you really will kill yourself. You're not even going to mention it to make somebody try to change your mind, like you did last time. You never knew whether to thank Karkat or hate him.

He stops. He lets go of you for as long as it takes to close the door to his respite block. You glance up, suddenly realizing that's where you are. Why would he bring you here? You glance around. It's dark and close, lit only by his computer screen and the round multicolored paper lamps he's got strung across the ceiling. Even though you know it already, you catch yourself asking, "Is this your respite block?"

"It is," he replies, pulling off his gloves. That leaves him attired in even less. Black socks, his ridiculous shades, and rather tight black underwear that proves what you've heard about human males having everything on the outside.

"Wwhy?" you ask, and you can't keep the distrust from your voice this time. If he were going to make a joke out of this, now would be the time. You're on edge. Really, you're going to flip your shit if he--

You blink. He's doing something you've never seen him do and you're sure few other people have seen him do it, either. He turns from you and steps to his computer desk, plucking his angular shades from his face and carefully setting them down.

"Because, I want you here."

You bristle. That's not quite enough of a reason and you hang near the door, ready to leave the moment this turns as ugly as you half-expect it to. You feel so out of control that it's hard to keep your hand from hovering near the doorknob; you've been without a moirail so long that just standing here with him makes you feel as if your whole life is in his warm alien hands. It can't be possible for him to know that but part of you really really wishes you could tell him.

"Wwhy do you wwant me here?" you murmur, sounding frightened of the answer.

He turns toward you, and he doesn't say anything. His expression is calm, and his gaze is remarkably warm. His eyes are the color of a fire's glow, a warm orange. On your world that would have made him a lowblood, but he wasn't born on your world. Your rules don't apply to him, and his rules don't apply to you. Perhaps you can make up new rules. You are both Princes, after all.

"I know desperation when I see it," he says with a ruthless simplicity that jabs you right in the throat. He doesn't look away from you. "And I know what it feels like. But it's not just that." 

He steps closer again, and your gills clamp tight as that jabbing feeling turns into a thick, aching lump. "It isn't?"

"No." His fingers unfasten your cape and sweep it from your shoulders. You protest quietly but he just shushes you. He hangs it on the hook on the back of his door before returning to you and going for your scarf next. You balk; you're never without your scarf. "It's alright," he tells you, and for some reason you believe him.

His finger caresses your rounded jawline as he slips the scarf off of you and hangs it up with your cape. Insane, how exposed you feel without those two simple garments. He can see the gills along the sides of your neck now, and he leans in to look at them in the dim, colorful light.

"Whoa."

"They're just gills." And they're still clamped tight, as if you were holding your breath.

"I see that."

"I'm sure you'vve noticed Fef's."

"Uhm. Actually, no. I've never looked at her that close and she has so much hair."

"Wwell, yes, that's true." You smile in spite of yourself, thinking about your former moirail. She sure does have a lot of hair and it does sit on her neck most of the time. You emit a chuckle that sounds every bit as nervous as you feel and at the rush of breath your gills relax and open again, and he blinks at the subtle way they move.

He immediately reaches up to touch them while you're distracted and before you know it, the warm dry stroke of his fingertips pass over the right side of your throat. Your breath catches and your opercula clamp shut again but that doesn't stop a shudder from rolling through you, from the tips of your horns right down to your goddamn toeclaws. So sensitive. So incredibly sensitive.

You're going to fucking explode. His warm human pheromones are all over in this room and he's standing so close to you, just emitting more of them like a fucking sex radiator and he's busy looking at your fucking gills. What. What even. "If it's not the desperation than wwhat is it?" you finally press. The situation is quickly turning into something you can't handle. You don't do sexual tension. You just don't. You melt down, that's what you do.

He shrugs a little, and you want to bite his fucking face. "I always liked bigger guys," he finally admits. "Can't help it. There's just something about a plush rump. And, I like alien guys. And I like purple, and fins. And I like the shape of your horns. And." Is he blushing? He seems awkward suddenly, but in a pleasant way. "You. I like you."

The urge to bite his face utterly evaporates and shock takes its place. You suddenly want to do other stuff to his face. A lot of other stuff.

"...did Sol put you up to this?"

"No."

"Davve, then."

"So much distrust."

"Can you blame me?"

"No, I guess not."

"So is this wwhere you throww me out wwithout my stuff and havve a laugh at the look on my face or..."

"Shit, Eridan. If you don't feel the same way, it's. It's alright, just tell me." He honestly looks self-conscious all of a sudden and you feel like the world's biggest bulgekicker.

"No! NO no." Oh fuck, you're going to throw up. Or, you would if there was anything in your stomach and there isn't. Is this really happening? You reach back for the door and you brace yourself, because you honestly feel weak in the knees suddenly. "It's just. I didn't think you could possibly--..."

"Well. I can. And I do." There's his arm again, slipping around you, guiding you away from the door and deeper into his personal space. His scent is fucking intoxicating and the closer you get to the bed, the more obvious it becomes. You realize you're not going to be walking out of here like you thought you would be, and you don't know what to think anymore. Your bloodpusher is throbbing so hard that it hurts.

It's not the first time your heart has ached, but this is the kind of ache you don't have much experience with.

He drops down to his mattress and he invites you to do the same. You do, lowering yourself down slowly beside him and the frame creaks under your weight. You hate being on land so much; in the water, you're graceful and fluid, but on land you trip over things, break furniture, and need a step stool to reach the top shelf. Your hands drop into your lap because you don't know what else to do with them.

"You seem to find it hard to believe that anyone would like you," he says, leaning in close to you and brushing his fingers down your arm. Beneath the smooth flesh and a layer of padding is a considerable amount of strength, even though it's not what people see when they look at you. Swimming fast enough to catch your food isn't something for the weak.

"You see howw they treat me," you mutter, your eyes trained on the spot where his naked thigh presses against your striped pants. "And they're my so-called friends. It's not that I blame them, really. I did some awwful things to some a' them. But I wwas just hopin' maybe wwe could all get past that. Death's no big deal on Alternia, especially not wwhen it comes to highbloods like me killin' lowwbloods like them. Personally I relegate it to the natural order a' things, and I put it behind me. It's not as if I'd do it again."

"If it was the natural order like you say," he begins, and the tone of his voice suggests an inescapable amount of sense is about to be made, "then they're likely stuck thinking of you as a predator. How many prey creatures do you know of that are happy to just wander up to a predator and strike up a conversation as if that predator didn't have a part in wiping out most of everything and everyone they knew? That fear is kind of bred in there, isn't it? And fear turns to hatred really easily."

You sigh through your gills and suddenly he's staring at them again. You don't have to sigh like that but it's habit. And it sounds more dramatic. "And it's a vvery personal, platonic hatred in this case," you concede.

"Give them more time, maybe. It's only been a few months."

Your shoulders sag. Months, yes. He says a few but it's been more than a few. As humans reckon time, it's been at least a quarter of a sweep, or half a year as they would say. "Oh sure, it's just been a feww months for them, but I wwas wwanderin' around the dream bubbles for at least a swweep or twwo before that. All alone, might I add. And noww suddenly I'm around 'em all again, but they don't wwant anythin' to do wwith me. Do you havve any idea howw that feels? It's like escapin' a long abysmal stretch a' solitary confinement only to be forced to wwatch others interact and leavve you by the fuckin' wwayside."

You didn't mean to say that much, and you really didn't want to say it with that typically overbearing whine in your voice, but you couldn't help it. He opened a can of dirt noodles with that topic and now you feel like a shitsponge. He's going to throw you out any moment, you know it. Any time your feelings come up, people throw you away. It's always been like that and you don't know why it would be any different now. You clench up everywhere and you wait for it; he's quiet for a moment and it's like you know it's coming.

He stands up. You're ready to do the same but he places both of his hands on your shoulders so that you can't. You look up at him, but your vision lingers at his bulge for a noticeable second or two. You can't help it, it's right there in your fucking face. Your blush stains your cheeks as dark as before and makes the delicate mottled patterns across your cheekbones more visible, and finally you meet his gaze. You're about to ask what he's doing when he gently begins pushing you down.

"Lay back," he says quietly, in a voice intended just for the two of you. "Roll over."

You don't know why you listen. You should rage at him for trying to command you but this is more conversation and attention than you've had since before you died. You're not giving it up now. You scoot back awkwardly and before you can roll over, he unties your shoes and takes them off, setting them by the bed. You're so shocked by this action that you forget his second command; he gestures with his hand for you to do it, reminding you.

You roll onto your belly and you have no idea what you're supposed to be doing. There are a lot of plush things on the bed and you simply grab one and tuck it under your head like a pillow. His scent saturates everything and you choke down the impulse to start purring.

You're about to ask what's going on when you feel him sliding against you, and you can actually feel his bulge through your pants as he seats himself squarely upon your generous backside. Something inside you begins veritably simmering, and your own bulge begins to squirm, the tip slipping from your sheath. He can't actually be- ... Can he?

His hands pass down your back and you groan. They're feverish, even through your shirt. You've never felt a touch so warm in your whole life. It's strange, and you like it a great deal.

"Wwhat are you doin'?" you finally ask, hoping that the world ends before he stops touching you.

"I want you to relax," he replies.

"Wwhy?"

"Because." There's a brief pause. "I want to do it with you."

Your mind blanks out. Who just up and says it like that?? Is this how humans handle their romantic interests? You have no fucking clue. You have no clue what to say to that, or how to feel about it, even though it's like someone has lit a tiny flame in your chest and is trying to fan it into a bonfire. 

"Eridan?"

"Mm?"

"Say something."

"Oh, uhm." You swallow around the knot in your throat but your voice comes out at a higher pitch anyway. It's stupid to ask him if he means what he says because he said it so plainly, or if he meant what you assume he means. You've been the fly on the wall to numerous conversations between the humans and the other trolls. There's no need to feign ignorance, even though you desperately want to, just to hear him say it again. "Wwhat do you mean? Do wwhat wwith me?" Your violently-debilitating insecurity demands absolute clarity. 

You're embarrassed as fuck anyway.

"I guess you guys call it pailing but I don't have any buckets. Sorry if that's a deal breaker."

You laugh, even if the sound is brief and almost false with the level of nervousness you've inadvertently packed into it. "It's. It's not."

"Well, good. I know what troll guys have and I am definitely intrigued. And you're the one I'm intrigued about most."

"Wwhy me?" You should just take what he says at face value and stop asking stupid shit like that but you can't help it. You're fucking broken inside and every time he says something positive about you, it's like he's taping little pieces of you back together again. Or, at least gathering little fragments together into vaguely-matching piles.

"I like you, like I said. And because I know you're going to ask why I like you..." Fuck, it's like he knows you already. His hands firmly stroke down against the rock-hard muscles of your back, tense from years of anguish and stress and swimming, and their warmth is more calming and arousing than you ever could have imagined. "You take shit all the time but you're still you. Dave throws shit at you, Sollux throws shit at you. Everyone does. But you still wake up every day and put on that fucking cape and each of those goddamn rings, and you still swipe on that eyeliner and you still wear that fucking gorgeous lipgloss. You don't change for anybody, and that shows that even though you've had a hard time, you aren't going to back down. You've got pride, a real sense of self, like actual real-deal royalty. You might be fucked up but you're not ruined. There's strength in that." He pauses. "I admire strength." All this while he hasn't stopped touching you, and you're melting into his mattress. 

You're also crying. He says you're strong but you sure as hell don't feel it. You also feel pretty ruined but you guess there might be some truth in what he said. If that's the case though, why isn't he nook-deep in Equius? You realize there's no way to know, and that he just might be fucking Equius as well. You quickly decide you don't want to know. You've never had an actual problem with Equius but due to your past hatred of landdwellers and his strict adherence to the feuds of his caste, you both avoid each other like the plague. Perhaps that's why you've never had a problem with him.

You're silent a long while as your sponge busies itself with those thoughts and at least your tears are quiet this time. They dwindle with each moment the more relaxed you get, and Dirk's hands don't stop. You begin purring, a low rumbling that thrums through your body. He can feel it as well as hear it and he makes a soft sound of appreciation. More astounding to you is the fact that you can feel him getting more and more aroused, until each movement of his hands is accompanied by a faint grinding of his hips against your ass. It's having an effect on you, too. No way to deny that. Your bulge is squirming around in your soaked pants, your nook throbbing and aching for contact. In spite of how he's calmed you, you're trembling, and that knot in your belly flares up again as you wonder whether this is all real or not. Fuck, you're still stuck thinking he's going to bail on you for some reason, so you do everything in your power to make sure he doesn't, including taking a personal vow not to spew more stupid questions at him. No more whys, or are-you-sures. You decide once again you're going to let him do whatever he wants and you're not going to question it.

The royal sectors of your brain scream at you about how degrading that is, that it should be you running the show, but another instinct far more intense (the will to live) demands that the royal sector shut its fucking trap. Maybe you do feel a little degraded. He's human after all, and you're not supposed to like humans, but he's also the only person who's ever laid a hand on you with these sort of intentions and you're not willing to care that he's human. In fact, you're willing to appreciate what he is because human or not, he's gorgeous, and he's been good to you thus far. Maybe a little degradation is perfectly okay. It's not like you're losing anything here; you've got nothing left to lose. If anyone finds out that Dirk did this with you, it'll be them wondering what's wrong with him, not the other way around. They already think everything is wrong with you.

So you don't fight it when he quietly suggests that you start undressing. You're nervous about this part. No one's seen you naked except for Fef, and you were both still very very young. You swallow around the throbbing mountain in your throat and you sit up, slowly lifting your shirt and pulling it off over your head. You have no interest in trying to appear suave and smooth. You're too panicked really to focus on anything like that and so you take it off just like you would if you were alone and about to crawl into your recuperacoon, careful of your fins and horns. You let it drop over the side of the bed and you have trouble looking at him. 

"This gets really messy, I'm sure you knoww," you mutter. The crotch of your pants is wet with your arousal, soaked in violet. You haven't even taken them off yet and its getting all over his sheets. 

"Yeah," he replies, as if it's no big deal. "I'm not worried about it." He's busy for the time being staring at your thoracic opercula, the ones that seal your gills just beneath your grubscars between the rolls of insulating fat at your sides. He bites at his lower lip and he smiles. "Wow," is all he says after he gets a good look at you, and if you were blushing before it's nothing to the heat that flushes your face now. You tell yourself not to say anything, not to ask why he said 'wow' or what he was wowing about. He's already said everything he could say to put you at ease. More questions won't help.

Instead of demanding your pants, he stands briefly to step out of the last of his own clothing, pushing his underwear down and pulling his socks off. After that, he's completely naked and he chuckles at the way your eyes widen, staring at what he has. Sure, you've heard about it but you've never seen it, and it's so strange that you can't tear your eyes away. No nook, no color streaking his thighs. His bulge is blunt and it doesn't move and his globes are actually hanging out of his body. He's got hair, just as pale gold as the hair on his head, and it's just. It's so...

"You want a closer look?" He sounds a little amused and you can't honestly blame him. You imagine what it might be like if someone stared at your junk the way you're staring at his and you know you'd be amused, too.

You nod dumbly, as if you've forgotten what your mouth was for, and when he steps up close to where you sit on the bed, you start thinking of other uses for your lips aside from trying to talk. You don't waste any time; you curl your arm around his leg, press your cool cheek to his feverish hip and nuzzle against the root of his bulge, breathing in his scent. Scent is always thickest here, and you're pleased to discover how intoxicating and strange he is, how hot and musky and different he smells. His fingers slip down through your hair, his forearm brushing your horn. A sigh slips out of you before you can stop it, and he shifts his touch so that his fingertips stroke your right hornbed.

The sound that comes out of you seems to amaze him, a soft clicking trill of pleasure. The sounds that come from your throat are not quite the same as those of landdwelling trolls. Your subtle vocalizations are intended for a life spent mostly beneath the waves, after all. They're a bit more percussive, more rumbly, as if intended to carry through water. He seems to like it all the same, and when you lift your fingers to stroke against the warm, velvety, unmoving length of his bulge, he moans as if he's just as hungry for the contact as you are. You press your lips against his shaft and kiss your way to his tip, lapping your tongue against the slit you find there and tasting the clear, glossy material that seems to be weeping out of him in tiny amounts. It tastes strong, salty and faintly bitter, but those are two of your favorite flavors and so you keep licking, as if hoping to coax more out of him. It doesn't even cross your mind to stick him in your mouth. You know humans do that but trolls don't unless they're crazy. You've got a mouth full of knives and his human skin is too soft.

Doesn't take you long to get a nice handful of his globes, either. He hisses between his teeth when you do and you can feel them drawing up a bit, as if they were trying to hide inside of him. He chuckles at the astounded, concerned look on your face. "Your hand is a bit cooler than they're used to."

"Oh." Letting him go is a bit of a disappointment, as his globes were fat and feverish and you wanted to grope them a while, but he soothes that disappointment immediately by leaning down and looming over you, so that he can kiss you. You turn your face up to meet him and suddenly you're inundated with the taste of him again. His breath is as hot as yours is cool, and he tastes like a thousand things you can't properly describe. Any descriptor that pops up into your thoughts is only a "sort of," and you love that. Sort of salty, sort of metallic, sort of clean, sort of sugary because they were drinking soda while playing strip poker. He explores your mouth with his tongue and he is so careful with your teeth and so are you, keeping them parted significantly to prevent any cuts. He's getting more reckless though, and as he settles on the bed again with you beneath him, he's kissing you like he needs to kiss you, hands pressed to either side of your face as he strokes your tongue with his own. Holy fuck, it's like he can't get enough of you and you grind up against him, unable to think of anything suddenly except getting him inside of you just as quickly as possible.

He seems to be thinking the same thing and when he breaks the kiss he doesn't mind his tongue, nicking it against your bottom row of teeth. He doesn't even react and so you don't react to it, either. Not that he's giving you a lot of opportunity to do so, with his hands suddenly wrestling with your fly. He's flustered and you can't blame him for running out of patience. After all, if he was another troll, he would have been globes-deep in you already. Extended foreplay seems to be a thing with humans, but for your kind, you're ready to go the instant someone looks at you just right. It's not like the drones give you a lot of time.

And that's how you know for a fact that the instant you wriggle out of your pants and he moves between your legs, you're not going to last. You're going to come in all of about five seconds and you wish you could tell him, but your mouth won't work. It's too busy just helping you breathe. You're so wet and slick that all he has to do is rub the thick head of his bulge between the puffy, glossy folds of your nook and fall against you. 

That doesn't stop you from being tight around him, and it doesn't stop him from being painfully hard and hot within you, and you have to press your hand against your mouth briefly to keep from keening. You stare up at him, wide-eyed. He really did it. He's inside you. He's inside you and he's kissing you and there's blood in his mouth. You can taste it, metallic and strange and you like the taste of it, licking against his wounded tongue. He starts moving then, your bulge squirming between your bodies and painting his abdomen in violet. The friction and thick heat of him are more than you can take. You grip his sheets to keep from tearing his skin with your claws and you tear them instead, his every movement stroking places deep inside you that you didn't even know you had. 

He's got you spilling in under a minute. Fuck, you'd consider yourself lucky if you made it thirty seconds. You gush all over his bed and all over him, trilling and keening hotly, trembling and practically convulsing as waves of intense release rush through you. You don't even remember the last time you spilled. You've been so tense and so depressed that you couldn't even bring yourself to do it on your own. From the feel of it, you could have filled a drone's pail all by yourself.

The look he gives you when you manage to open your eyes again practically kills you with happiness. He looks positively intoxicated, as if he were drunk on your pheromones and the feel of fucking you. He's still hard inside you and you know (or at least you're pretty sure) that means he hasn't finished yet.

"You're not--" you gasp, trying to say something.

"Almost," he breathes in response, his head dropping between his shoulders. But he's stopped moving. Why?

"Go on," you reply, encouraging him.

"You sure?"

"Please."

It'll hurt. You're tender inside now, his blunt, hard bulge leaving your nook feeling bruised, but you want more than anything for him to spill inside you, especially while he's looking at you like that. It's not even a bad sort of pain just then, just intense and it's got you moaning and whining and gripping onto him, no longer in fear of losing control of your claws.

A mistake, as he builds you up to a second climax while still working toward his first. It only takes a few minutes but it feels like a long, blissful, aching forever. Your claws bite his skin as a second release rushes over you like a tidal wave, milking the last of your genetic material out of you, and then you feel it.

He presses in deep, grimaces sharply, and you can feel him throbbing and pulsing in your nook. You don't imagine it's anything like pailing with another troll, as humans only expend a tiny amount of genetic material, but you don't care. Feeling him throb inside you is everything you need. Dirk slumps on top of you, pillowing his head against your chest and draping his arms around your bulk as he struggles to breathe and for a while you're both completely useless. His sheets and blankets are all cold and sticky thanks to you, but he doesn't complain.

Spent, he slips out of you. Your nook aches, but it aches in the best way this time.

"Eridan."

"Yeah?"

"You okay?"

You want to tell him you're more okay than you've ever been. You've never felt so wanted in your life, never felt so desirable. You stroke your fingers back through his hair and you sigh deeply. He lifts his head to peer at you and you can tell he's serious about his question. Those orange eyes still look vaguely intoxicated and dreamy, but the line of his mouth is hard.

All you can bring yourself to say just then is, "Yeah."

He nods, leaning up to sit back on his ankles, though he stays close to you. His abdomen, thighs, hips, and groin are painted nearly solid in glossy, translucent violet slime. He trails his fingers through it, bringing it to his lips to lick it, taste it. He hums in approval. "Good. Because you feel incredible."

"You uhm. Y'really think so?"

"Hell yeah. You're tight and who needs lube when you're that slick? And jesus, that temperature difference... I've always wanted to feel that. Whew."

You chuckle a little. His approval feels wonderful. The royal sector of your think pan is brooding over indignity but the rest of you feels pretty fucking amazing. Something primal and buzzing in the back of your skull has been sated and--

"Hey, Dirk. You in here? Where the fuck did you--"

He didn't lock his door. Of all the things he could have forgotten to do, why that? Suddenly Dave is standing in the doorway and Sollux is right behind him, and you can't move because every part of you is suddenly frozen, locked up. You can't decide whether or not to feel any shame, because you can't think. It's only been a few moments since you pailed. If they had come in any sooner, they would have seen it happen. You brain just isn't working yet. You stare at the doorway. Sollux's eyes meet yours.

They don't look away, either.

"Holy fucking shit." The Strider with the round shades goes a few shades paler than normal. For him, that's quite a feat.

"Hey, Dave." Dirk talks as if he's got nothing whatsoever to hide and isn't ashamed of a damn thing. There's nothing whatsoever in his voice to suggest that things aren't perfectly normal and exactly how he wants them. "C'mon, dude. I thought I told you to knock. What if I'm getting busy in here or something?" There's sarcasm in there. And irony, probably. A lot of it.

You sit up slowly and rake a hand back through your hair. You can still feel Sol's gaze, and you keep glancing up at it from time to time. The psionic glances between you and Dirk and back again. It's as if he's trying to work through an equation with an obvious answer, but it's an answer he doesn't want to find because it'll prove his theorem wrong. Something in you twists a little bit, but if Dirk isn't going to be apologetic, then you aren't, either. That royal part of your brain is standing up and flaring his fins and hissing out a warning fit to make any lowblood piss himself in terror. You won't be cowed, not by Sollux, and not for what just happened.

You know Sollux can smell it. Even from the doorway, you know that he can. Hell, you'd be surprised if he hadn't smelled it halfway down the hall and was just trying to kid himself into thinking there was no possible way that it could be your mating pheromones. Or maybe he did figure it out and was hoping Dave would freak out, because as often as he seems to get along with the other Strider, he's often the target of Dave's teasing, too.

Dave just gapes for a moment before his stoic facade can be restored. Then, all he does is back out of the doorway, hands raised. "Nope," he says, and he keeps saying it. "Nope, nope, nope." He vanishes back down the hallway, and you know he's going to tell everyone he sees. You're not sure if you want him to or not.

Sollux shifts his weight and hugs himself a little and cackles at Dave's reaction. He doesn't turn away though. He's blushing from ear to ear and almost bouncing nervously.

"Did you guys want something?" Dirk asks him.

"Huh? Oh, no. No, Dave wa2 ju2t lookiing for you two fiind out where you went becau2e you left the game 2o 2uddenly. Uhm. ED?" For some reason, the psionic looks like he's about to come unwound.

Your hands settle in your lap. You're sticky and you're naked and you really just want a shower, though when Sollux addresses you, your voice finally comes unstuck. You give him a weary look, as if there's not a snowball's chance in hell you're going to put up with any shit from him right now. Your fins slowly fan out, as if that warning were more than a thought. "Wwhat, Sol?"

He seems to notice this and fidgets a bit before grasping the doorknob and slowly pulling it shut, excusing himself. "Actually, you know what, II'll a2k you later."

Dirk waves him off, and then he's gone, the tips of all four mutant ears glowing like burnished gold. You sigh heavily and slump, and Dirk asks you again if you're okay. You assure him you are, and he invites you to join him in the shower.

You can't quite agree on how hot or cold the spray ought to be, so you just take turns under it while you talk. Being naked with him is comforting because he doesn't make a big deal out of it. He doesn't point things out or grope or try to bring attention to it. It's just a fact of the moment. This is what you're like under your clothes, no big deal.

"Do you think you'll wwant to do this wwith me again?"

"I can guarantee it, but I'm still working things out with Jake. So I don't want you to think that you suddenly have me in a quadrant or something."

You shake your head. "Wwouldn't dream of it. First, you're human and you don't do things like quadrants. And second." You try to think of a diplomatic way to put what you're thinking, a relatively new thing for you. Fuck it, you decide. "I don't knoww you wwell enough, just to be honest."

"You're a lot more sensible than I expected."

You snort. "Wwhat, wwere you expectin' some high-maintenance prince wwith a fuckin' boatload a' expectations and no self-restraint?"

"Actually, yeah. I was, sort of. My mistake."

"Hmph." You're a little offended. More than a little. You kind of want to slap him, but then you realize that he didn't really have anything to off-set his expectations, did he? He never really talked to you before now and probably heard shit from the others. 

You step out and dry off a bit, and as you're pulling your clothes back on, he returns to his respite block to strip the bed. Sheets, blankets, mattress pad, and then some kind of waterproof liner underneath, and the mattress itself is pristine. You have to wonder how long Dirk's been hoping to get into a troll's pants. Speaking of which, you stash your own soaked ones into your sylladex and fetch a clean pair instead.

You don't have anything else to do so you help him fix his bed, dressing it back up in another liner and mattress pad before layering on clean, sweet-smelling black fabrics, sheets, and blankets. It's the least you can do. You helped wreck it, after all. He flops into it with a sigh and a smile on his face, still as naked as ever. He beckons to you and you settle down with him, and for a little while all you can do is kiss him. Neither of you seems to want more than that and it's perfect.

He's sleepy. It's easy to tell. You call him on it and only then does he yawn, but he doesn't disagree. It is pretty late and he's been awake for a while, so you duck out and let him sleep, something he's finally able to do with ease now that the Game is over.

*


End file.
